


Little Things are Infinitely Most Important

by jenaicompris



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Female Friendship, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Holmes Brothers, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Mentor & Protégé, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Mystery Character(s), Not Beta Read, Past Domestic Violence, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sorry Not Sorry, Sorry for the Mycroft shade, Sort of anyway, and that is not old, fight me, mentor, no beta we die like men, not a huge difference because Sherlock is like 30, sort of slow burn but not super slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27055978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenaicompris/pseuds/jenaicompris
Summary: Our heroine has traveled much, only to find herself on the same London street as one Enola Holmes. After saving the girl from getting her goose cooked by an angry merchant, the conlady (it sounds so much fancier, no?) finds a fondness for the youngest Holmes and takes her under her wing. Jules, as she insists on being called, has her own mystery to solve while she guides Enola to finding herself, peace for her mother, and exploring England as it slides into a new era. Along the way, Sherlock is in hot pursuit of not only his wayward sister but a certain thief with ties to the French presidency - when he finds that they are connected, what was already a difficult case becomes a very messy one.
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Original Female Character, Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury, Past Original Male Character/Original Female Character, Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 76





	1. There is Nothing More Deceptive Than an Obvious Fact.

**Author's Note:**

> French is in italics but not everything in italics is French. :) 
> 
> I should be writing my ME fanfic but I watched this movie and Henry Cavill is pretty. Title and subsequent chapter titles will be some kind of Sherlockian quote...unless I run out.

The girl was peculiar. Pretty, young, and peculiar. 

It was clear from my few moments of watching that she was smart; although how smart remained to be seen. The thing she lacked, it seemed, was an overabundance of common sense. 

Still, I couldn't just leave her to be arrested. Pulling up the edge of one wayward glove, I approached and touched her arm gently just as the owner of the bakery stand hurried over, red-faced and ready to go to blows. 

She was little more than a child, if the smooth plane of her face was any indication. 

"Sister, dear," I smiled sweetly from the girl whose name I didn't know to the angry flour-coated man. "Put that in my basket so we might purchase it." 

She looked up at me, slightly frightened before her eyes narrowed in understanding. Clever girl, as I thought. Which was fortunate because I wasn’t looking to be caught out too. 

"She belongs to you, Miss?" The baker asked with eyes made large in curiosity - our appearances would be hard-pressed to be much different than they were but before he could question it, I offered a simple explanation.

"My husband's sister, of course," I laughed gaily, as if his confusion was a well-worn joke. Despite the gloves I wore, I made certain to hide my left hand by holding gently to the girl's shoulder. "We're out to market to discern the best ingredients for the beloved man's supper."

"Haven't you got servants?"

I feigned affront at him; it was a question that made sense with the finery I had chosen but, still, a bold one. "Kind sir, what a question! Certainly we have but I find joy in making my husband's favorite meal when he pleases me. Now she was simply sampling to discern the fineness of your wares," I glanced at her with a feigned knowing smile before offering him a tuppence. Highway robbery but enough to get him to momentarily forget the mouthful of bread the girl was swallowing. 

Apparently, however, not quite enough to get him to fully believe my story. “Your brother lets you prance around with your hair loose like a street urchin?”

“Sir!” I responded, honestly slightly taken aback at his brazen line of questioning and more than a little frustrated by it. I’d overpaid him drastically for his shoddy bread and now he was mucking up the ruse.

The girl, bless her heart, made it worse. Her face reddened in irritation and she straightened her shoulders, “Not even Sherlock Holmes can tell me what to do with my own hair!”

Dear Reader, this sweet child just blurted the name Sherlock. In all of Christendom, she chose _this_ name. Not John, William, or even Hamish - _Sherlock Holmes_.

The curious thing about it was how quickly and readily it came to her lips; I think that lent credence to her outburst but the look on the baker’s features set me on edge again. If it hadn’t been for this depth of emotion, one might have been able to assume she had merely meant it as a strange exclamation. Certainly, though, she meant to intimate that this man was her brother - and, for the point of this ruse, my husband.

I had only meant to save this poor child from the man’s wrath; not bring it down on me. 

“You mean to tell me, girly, that the great detective Sherlock Holmes not only has a sister no one’s heard of but got married and it wasn’t in the papers?”

Suppressing the strong, deep-seated urge to roll my eyes, toss my hands in the air, and leave the girl to her fate I instead offered him a long-suffering smile. “Well you know Mr. Holmes...he’s quite a private person. It can be dangerous to let some know of our existence.” As if including the man in a secret, I leaned in and whispered conspiratorially while I slipped him a shilling. This girl was becoming increasingly expensive. “It would benefit us greatly if you forgot this conversation ever took place, my good man. I am certain my husband will look kindly on such a keen confidante.”

I silently prayed to whichever deity chose to listen that Sherlock Holmes never met this man in particular but knew that the universe was rarely so kind. I just needed to get him to believe me long enough to let us walk away with the girl’s loaf and my already partially-full basket. 

Whether it was the idea of having Sherlock Holmes in some way indebted to him or the shiny silver coin he now palmed, he seemed assuaged enough to send us on our way with a wink that made my skin crawl. Steering the girl (loaf in hand) away from the baker’s stall back into the throng of the market, I linked my arm with hers gently to keep her close enough to speak to.

“You couldn’t have chosen _any other_ name? _Anyone_?” I half-laughed, the affected highborn London accent dropping from my speech. It left me sounding more like myself, my time spent in France affecting the sound of my West Country accent when the words flowed without my attempts to alter them. 

“Well, I’ve only the two options,” she replied simply, looking at our linked arms. “And I wouldn’t wish Mycroft on _anyone_. Now if you’ll excuse me..” she started, attempting to slide her arm from mine.

“Wait!" I tightened my arm against my body to keep her close. Thinking better of it, I slid my hand onto her bicep to grasp her gently and hold her in place. “You mean to tell me you really _are_ Sherlock Holmes’ sister?” Laughing, I let go over her arm to press my hand over my chest. “Sweet girl....” she looked like a fox cornered in a hunt. “...the first thing you need to know about deception is to not leave such breadcrumbs.” Glancing at the loaf in her hand, I raised an eyebrow. “Certainly you can’t _want_ to be found by him if you’re stealing your breakfast. You must come up with a believable name.”

“I have little use for such things,” she replied haughtily and I shook my head, smiling knowingly. She had so, _so_ much to learn. “Besides...why...what is your interest in me?”

“I have none,” I said as I shrugged and adjusted my bonnet back to its true position atop my head. “I merely wished to save you from the trouble you were very nearly taken into.”

“Poppycock! The only reason he approached me is because _you_ began to talk to me!”

I snorted, a very unladylike gesture despite the finery I wore. She seemed a little surprised to hear the sound but I didn’t pay it any mind. “Yes, that was bang up to the elephant without me. A mouthful of the bread right in front of the stall?” Shaking my head, I held my hand out for her loaf. “May I?” 

She watched me suspiciously but handed it over. I continued our paces far and away, knowing that the man would likely follow after us when he realized I’d taken back the silver piece, all of its friends in his apron pocket, and what felt like a fairly nice pocket watch. I could’ve left it with the man and potentially avoided conflict in the street, with Sherlock Holmes, or burning the bridge of being able to come back to his stall - but in truth, I didn’t believe he deserved it. Sometimes my marks would surprise me and I would show them kindness; that man hadn't struck me as the sort that would’ve shown the poor girl any mercy so he received none. 

“ _Tout d’abord_ ,” I cast a glance at her, scanning from head to toe, “I appreciate what you’re doing or, rather, what you’re _not_ doing but you invite scrutiny. You must blend into your surroundings to avoid detection, not stand out like a young woman fighting her oppression.” Her expression at first soured at my soft reprimand and then seemed mildly surprised at my notice. “You are blessed with common enough features,” to this she made a face and I rolled my eyes quite pointedly, “do not mistake me, you are lovely. I _mean_ that you haven’t got vibrant red hair or a complexion to note. You’re of an average height, an appropriate weight. You are pretty enough but not, in your current state at any rate, going to draw so much attention that your face can’t be forgotten. This is to your _advantage_.”

“If you’re quite done insulting me, I’d like my breakfast back,” the girl held out a defiant hand and I took her by the wrist, the loaf nowhere to be seen as I hurried her along the streets.

“You misunderstand me, _chère_ ,” I sighed a bit and shook my head as we dodged to cross the street, deftly avoiding carriages going opposite directions. “I am trying my hardest to assist you. _Maintenant_ ,” pulling her along, I continued until we reached a sufficiently distant alley. “When you can take the loaf, you can depart.”

She made to snatch at my hand, as that was the last place the bread had been, but found that her grasp came back empty. Obstinately, she reached for my basket. I let her take it without preamble and watched as she pawed through it. Frowning, she shoved it back towards me and approached, circling me as she eyed my person.

“What’s to keep me from walking away?”

“Your own stubbornness, I should think,” was my retort. “And if not that, perhaps your growling stomach...And, again, if neither of those satisfy you...the baker will assuredly be looking for one or the both of us in short order.” I opened my hand to show her the plethora of coins I had pocketed. Well, perhaps _plethora_ is too kind a word. It wasn’t worth a half-sovereign in total but it wasn’t nothing. “If you like, you can have the coin too. Although if you’d be so kind as to keep me company, I will provide you with lunch as well.”

Her suspicion grew and she stopped sizing me up after pulling another empty handful away from my person. Her shoulders dropped and she looked at me with a tight expression on her face. “Why are you so interested in helping me?”

“One might say I abhor the dull routine of existence,” I offered her small, sly smile. She still hadn’t noticed that I’d slid the loaf into the belted ribbon around her waist some time ago. It was just as well. “One might also say I have not done enough good in the world and so, I thought it might be an opportunity to make up for it.”

“I don’t wish to be an _entertainment_ for you,” she grumbled, growing frustrated as she re-checked my person for the loaf of bread. “Nor do I wish to be your salvation, you...What is your name, then?”

“You may call me Jules. And yours?”

She balked a little at the question; she was ready to give up the truth on her brother but more hesitant to tell me her name. This gave me a little hope that she had, in fact, been listening to me.

“Enola,” she replied, and shoved her hand out to me to shake. The sudden movement caused me to laugh a little; it was certainly an unladylike movement and I appreciated it for exactly what it was.

I took her hand and shook it. “The best lies are born out of obvious truths. A name like Enola, you have to know that it is the truth.”


	2. The Game is Afoot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeee! Thanks to all the readers, kudosers, bookmarkers, subscribers (13!!), and to Ebony for the comment!
> 
> To clarify: the marquisate mentioned DID exist. I do not mean to disparage the family or any real people by using the name here. As far as I know, Louis and Baptiste de Roquelaure do not exist in the timeframe or circumstances in which I've listed them below. There WILL be references to real people (Jules Grevy, the president of France during the time period for one) but it's all in good, fanfiction fun. 
> 
> If you don't know something, chances are Jules (our heroine) does not either. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> TW: mentions of domestic abuse/choking, death by duel.

With some consternation, Enola put her hands on her hips and attempted to stare me down. "Where have you got it hidden?"

"I haven't got it at all," I replied, holding my hands aloft as if to absolve myself.

"After all that you dropped it?" Her voice raised in a pitch of incredulity. 

"Of course not, _ma chère_." I gestured to her person. "I merely said I did not have it. I know many things I can share with you, not the least of which being how to hide things - like yourself - in plain sight. Touch your waist to the middle of your back."

Enola made a face at me as she bent her elbow to reach out her fingertips. I saw the myriad of expressions slide across her face as she brushed the crust of the loaf. She seemed displeased with me in general but more than a little curious. 

She was curious enough, it seemed, to join me for lunch. I was thankful; I would not outright offer her more than I had but it was important that she knew where to turn when she needed it. I believed, once I understood more of who she was and what it was she was doing, that she would not turn to her brothers for assistance but the girl was hardly sixteen. The streets of London were no place for a woman, let alone a girl.

“Are you a thief, then?” she asked around a mouthful of jam and scone. Her brown eyes scanned my parlor; my rented rooms, although more lavish than I needed perhaps, served me well enough. There was a second bedroom to my own, currently collecting dust on furniture that was let with the space. I had considered taking in a flatmate but decided better of it; they were such a bother, with all their questions. 

This question, though; I smiled demurely. “Not by trade but I am capable.”

“What is it that you _do_?”

“Whatever I like.”

My answer did not seem to please her and so I took a moment to sip my tea and wait for her to press me.

“You clearly have enough money, or enough debt, that you _needn’t_ steal. Yet you lifted the baker’s purse _and_ an extra loaf of bread.” She gestured to the poor excuse for a baguette that sat along the side of the table. Clever girl, I was wondering if she had noticed. 

“If you hadn’t told me you were related to Sherlock Holmes, I might’ve guessed,” I let out a laugh, shaking my head.

“Do you know my brother?” she asked suddenly, looking furtively to the door as though she expected him to walk through at any moment. 

“Hardly. I know _of_ him, as anyone that reads a paper might. But your skills of observation lend themselves to detective work.”

“Do you know much of such a thing?”

I was not fully aware of her motive behind the question but deemed it harmless enough either way. “After a fashion but only when it suits me. It is not my trade.”

She stared at me hard over her cup of tea. Her eyes scanned every inch of me in a way that was both obvious and also innocent.

It seemed that she wanted to ask, and so I answered for her before she could. “I do not run a house of ill-repute. I am unmarried.”

“Widowed?”

I nodded once. “To my great sadness,” the word came out in a way to suggest it was anything but, “my late husband, rest his soul, died only a few months into our wedded bliss.”

“Was he a bore?”

“And a boar,” I sighed heavily, tilting my head to the side to expose my elongated neck to her vision. I rotated my head along my neck to showcase the other side. Sets of five half-moon scars overlapped as though the man had repeatedly attempted to viscerally remove my voice box. Which, in fact, he had. “Fortunately for me, he made more enemies than friends. He insulted the wrong upstart baron and lost his life in a duel. Even more fortunate was his bizarre generosity of will. As he lacked children and loathed his younger brother, he left me the totality of his estate.” Smiling dryly, I spoke over my tea before sipping it. “I do believe it was more to spite the man than it was to aid me. And perhaps to spite my family as well, for convincing him I was more of an asset than a loss.” 

“He sounds wretched,” she seemed genuinely concerned or angry on my behalf. 

“He was, at least when we were alone. A charming fellow when he had one glass, a menace when he had more. Perhaps worst, still, when he had none.” I lost myself to memories briefly before I waved my hand to dispel both the thoughts and the melancholy that accompanied them. “That is no matter any longer. My period of mourning has ended and, truth be, it ended the day he died. Three months was plenty long to be his wife. I would much rather be his widow.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, it might be smarter to speak less of how thrilled you are at his...departing.”

“You mean for fear of someone misunderstanding my role in his timely demise?” 

She nodded, wincing at my word choice. I was surprised at her concern and awareness. 

“You and I are the only people present; my butler is no doubt harassing my cook in the kitchen and as it is passed noon, my maid is likely tidying at her own place of residence. Besides, it has been weeks beyond the two years required of me to think on the man. I had no knowledge of the baron that took his life and was present neither during the quarrel nor the resulting duel. My distaste for him is little more than crass.” 

“You’re a strange woman,” she commented, sitting back some after having taken another spot of lunch. “And I still don’t quite understand what it is you want with me.”

“Nothing much at all,” I replied, dabbing my lips with my napkin. “I have spoken to too few since my marriage and thought I might enjoy your company. Besides, this little endeavor gave us plenty of chance to lose the baker and learn a little more about each other.”

“What have you learned about me, then? You are the one that has been speaking.”

“Oh certainly you have heard my story - but I have watched you listen.”

Enola seemed frustrated to some degree but also quite curious as I explained to her what about her I had learned as I watched her watching me. 

"I'm not so useless," she replied, as if she needed to convince herself as much as me in that moment. 

"I should hardly think so!" I waved the thought away with an ungloved hand. "You've a keen eye of your own and you're no slouch. Do you know much of defending yourself?"

The girl nodded vehemently and so began our mutually beneficial agreement. Enola would teach me what she knew of martial arts, for I knew nothing aside from the most basic tenets of how to dissuade one's attacker. In turn, I would provide her with whatever information she found interesting or purposeful enough to learn.

That afternoon, she left my parlor and I retired to a large chair in the study. I had made no suggestion that she give up her rented rooms for mine. The time would come for that but if I had pegged her correctly, it needed to be her idea and not mine.

"A letter for you," Carnot, the man older than my deceased husband who had served him longer than I'd been in society, offered me the post. It was from France. Carnot had asked to stay on in my employ when Louis departed the world. Carnot had stopped, at his own peril, Lord Roquelaure from doing permanent damage to me on more than one occasion. I couldn't deny him and would have asked him to stay if he had not taken it upon himself to do so.

"Thank you, C," I smiled up at him and took it between my fingers, sliding my index beneath the seal to break it. It smelled of flowers and old paper. 

A broken piece of straw, yellow petals, and a sprig of slightly injured small purple buds fell from the envelope along with a scrap of paper. It was frayed at the edges but more than that it was burnt. The back held no writing but the front was clear enough; the old ink was smudged but it was a signature. It was a few years old but I recognized it. Remembered when it had happened. It was on the same phantom line as my maiden name. There were so few documents that I had signed my maiden name to - after I had been introduced to court, it was only a handful of months before I no longer had it to use. 

It was not my signature. It wasn't a falsified one, either. I recognized the curve of the L as though it was my own. The slashing of the R, the unnecessary use of his title on a document for God and Country. 

My dead husband's signature and bits of a garden. I knew of floriography but did not have a running catalogue of such meanings in my head; it was popular enough among my contemporaries that I ought to have a book of it but did not. The simple concepts for courting - roses, peonies, orchids and the like - were common enough to me but I hardly recognized the flora beyond the straw. The purple flowers smelled familiar enough but were not well preserved in the post. 

As such, I did the only thing that made any sense; I left the paper and nature bits atop the largest table in the study and studied instead the envelope.

It was a plain envelope, nothing particularly noteworthy about it. The handwriting on the front, expressing the recipient (myself) was unfamiliar to me. It was small and cramped with pointed letters, perfectly symmetrical dots over the _i_ ’s in _Juliette_ and _Marchioness_ . The loop on the _R_ in _Roquelaure_ looked as though it would slice through the _o_ that followed it. The writing was meticulous. It didn’t resemble my dead husband’s, at least not as I had known it.

Yet the unknown sender and strange, still-unclear message left me feeling uneasy. I retained the Marquisate Biran in Armagnac in the south of France but had fled to London the moment my mourning was over. While I had spent much of my later youth in France, having moved with my family shortly after my twelfth birthday, I missed London and had no desire to maintain my residence. 

Louis’ younger brother, Baptiste, and his small family had been given leave to move onto the grounds as I traversed the countryside. I had no need to allow the dust cloths to work hard at their job; it made no sense to force the place to rot simply because I wished to never set foot into it again. 

All of this made the phantom letter curiouser and more bizarre. Why in the world would someone send me what was clearly meant to be a threat? And what, in fact, did their threat suggest? 


	3. The World is Full of Obvious Things Which Nobody by Any Chance Ever Observes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has interacted with this story! I greatly appreciate knowing that you like it (bookmarks, kudos, subscriptions, and comments!) and get really excited when I see people reading it. This chapter is about the same length as the last two (what I mean is short). It's grading crunch time so hopefully...eventually I will catch up and have some more free time.
> 
> But! The much requested meet-cute.

As it so happened, I slept fitfully. The threat disturbed me worse than I had anticipated even though it made little sense to me. I set off early the next morning to find a shop that might assist me in deciphering the message. My first attempt was at WHSmith & Son but it was not nearly as fruitful as I had hoped. Instead, after much exploration and consternation, I found a small bookshop that seemed more like a place for the occult than serials.

It was just the thing. A tiny little hole in the wall, tucked away in a residential neighborhood not far from the Baker Street station. The wizened old man behind the counter was pleasant enough and not pushy; there were only so many rows to look through but I found myself drawn down the aisles despite my original quest.

The light tinkling of the bell over the front entrance alerted me to another customer some time after I arrived before I had even made my way to floriography. I, in fact, had a book in my hands regarding beekeeping. I was enthralled by the sheer magnitude of my options and slightly distracted from my concerns because of it.

Purposeful footsteps sounded across the floor as I tried to lose myself in the words again. 

“Hmm...oh, here..Honey was also considered a great delicacy,” I murmured under my breath as I found my spot once again. I had spent a slightly obscene amount of time with the book in my hands but couldn't quite give it up. Even as a throat cleared somewhere behind me.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ackley, I’ll be just a moment…” I slid my finger to my spot on the page as I turned about to find the culprit of the throat-clearing. It was certainly _not_ the short, spritely man with a shock of white hair and reading glasses perched on his robust nose. 

Indeed it was a tall, well-built man in a suit tailored for his form and curls of chocolate that dared graze his forehead. He was quite a handsome man, the angle of his jaw and the strength of his chin softened by the blue of his eyes - although not, I think, by the look in them.

“Do you always read aloud to yourself?” His voice low, his tone equal parts joking and barbing. 

The question startled me; it was quite a blunt thing although it harmed me little. “Often when I think myself alone and find the words quite poetic, certainly.”

“Do you find commentary on food so poetic?”

My cheeks heated as it felt like he was surveying how much I enjoyed food by a fairly imperceptible sweep of my person. “It can be. Although there are many such passages in this. Here, let me... _Was a king to give a sumptuous repast, or a queen invited to a special banquet?_ There’s just something so pleasant in his words. I came for flowers and got stuck in...oh, apiculture?”

“Much like the subject of which he writes. May I?” he asked, hands extended for the book. I was sorry to part with it but did so regardless. I had considered a moment purchasing it along with whatever else I might find interesting when I finally made it to the section for which I had come. “Harbison is a well-known although occasionally fanciful curator,” he commented, closing the book over in his grasp and turning it over to inspect the covers. “Did you mean to purchase it?”

“I had thought to, yes. It was not my original intention but I find it quite interesting. Why do you ask?”

A look passed over his features that seemed more like success than anything but it moved quickly into slight irritation before settling in almost neutrality. “Ahh, you see, this is the sole tome for which I have journeyed to this store.”

I very nearly suggested that he might have it but he continued instead.

“If it would please you, I will purchase it and can send it along to your address when I’ve completed my read of it. Is this an amenable solution?”

I thought to toy with him a little and began a few steps down the aisle towards my initial prize; this brought me passed him. He smelled of resin, pipe tobacco, and an earthy smell I couldn’t place. These only reached me faintly. It was a pleasant enough melange carried on a bed of cleanliness. “I might consider such a thing,” I moved to the shelves behind him, turning to speak over my shoulder. I was pleased to see that he had turned to follow. He might consider me rude for walking away but it was no matter. “But I would be remiss if you did not allow me to pay you back in kind for it. I have only to find the book I came for and then I might accompany you to the counter. Perhaps we could share the cost of your book. That would be more fitting, I think.”

He was more put out than I would have liked but less than I had expected by the suggestion of waiting on me. “I certainly do not mind purchasing it on your behalf.”

“Nonsense. If we are both to find pleasure in it, it only makes sense that we both should share the cost.”

The edge of his fine lips quirked up in the smallest of smirks. “Well, it is quite modern of you but I accept. Now...might I help you find what you are looking for?”

“Are you a librarian when you are not accosting women for their reading endeavors?” I teased, sliding my gaze from him so that I could search the deep wooden shelves before me. 

He let out a bark of a laugh as he tucked our shared book beneath one fine arm. Oh but Reader, the _smile_ that flashed across his features! It was brief, as though the sun might be jealous if it stayed too long. “I do quite enjoy books in what leisure time I afford myself.”

“When you come to bring me our _propriété partagée_ perhaps you might stay long enough to peruse my personal library. I haven’t got a large collection of apiculture as of yet but _peut-être_ there will be something of interest for you.”

“You can learn much from the books a person keeps,” he said, holding the beekeeping book aloft as if proof. “What would your library say about you?”

I considered this a moment as we continued down the aisle, side-by-side now as my floriography book was momentarily forgotten. “They are all well-read and most are well-preserved. Few if any are quite expensive and those are simply for the joy of reading them. The overwhelming majority have served investigative purposes.”

“The subjects?”

I smiled, stopping and scanning the shelf behind his head. It was partially an excuse to find his eyes again. “Ah, but if I tell you, what reason will you have to find the answers for yourself?”

“Perhaps there are other questions for which I need answers.”

“A lady must have her secrets,” I offered a small smile as I skirted dangerously close to too close and brushed passed him to extend my gloved hand and capture a book.

“The language of flowers?” he intoned, his eyes scanning the spine as I brought it to me. “I thought all young ladies were well-versed in the meaning of bouquets.”

It was my turn to laugh, holding the book tight to my corseted torso a moment before I pulled it up to inspect it. “Perhaps some women and some flowers. I find myself curious, I suppose. There are many languages I do not know and it is merely one of them.”

Not entirely a lie, although not the truth either. But what did this man need to know of an illicit message about my dead husband?

“Are you often taken to flights of fancy in regards to learning such things?”

“Constantly. What else is one to do when they are single and unable to work in most capacities because of their gender?” 

The look on his face implied I had struck a chord and he responded, “Indeed,” although I wasn’t entirely certain he was speaking solely to me in that moment. When he returned to the present, he gingerly took the volume from my hand and replaced it with an alternate. “The drawings in this are more comprehensive. If you would like, when I return this to you I could bring another encyclopedia of meanings.”

“I would most certainly like that.”

With our purchases in hand, we ventured to the front of the shop. Mr. Ackley seemed both amused and mildly concerned at our purchasing process. He called my companion a name I did not catch, as I was distracted once again by the book of beekeeping, before a steel pen, ink pot, and piece of paper were handed over. I included my title, as was appropriate and easily identifiable because of my shared address, and the location of my rented home. I considered purchasing something elsewhere but had not decided to settle indefinitely in London.

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly at my name, although if it was because he recognized it or something else I was unsure. “Please,” I pleaded as I handed him the now-dried note, “call me only Jules.”

“It’s highly improper,” he began before offer a small, sly smile that may never have existed at all, “...Jules.”


End file.
